


Perfectly Pleasant Terms

by amyfortuna



Series: 2015 Season of Kink Card 2 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barely Legal, Blow Jobs, Couch Sex, Drunk Sex, First Time, Half-Sibling Incest, Infidelity, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor and Fingolfin get a bit drunk and do deliciously naughty things to each other at a ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfectly Pleasant Terms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> This also fulfils my Season of Kink square for 'gags/silence'.

"Where's your wife?" Fingolfin asked jovially, peering around Fëanor as if to see Nerdanel and their child just behind him. Fingolfin had already had a couple of glasses of the very fine liquor that was being served that night. He had only just attained the age when drinking more than a glass of watered-down wine was considered acceptable, and was taking full advantage of his newfound liberty. 

Usually Fëanor frowned down at him and sometimes didn't even deign to speak with him, but tonight he seemed to be in a lighter mood, and even gave him a smile as he answered. "Nerdanel and Nelyo are visiting Mahtan. I had to stay behind to consult with Father on my recent discovery of a source of copper in the hills to the west of Tirion, but will be joining them soon." He had a glass in his own hand, and was alternating between watching the golden liquid sparkle in the light of the thousand candles scattered throughout the large ballroom, and slowly taking sips of the sweet liquor within. 

"Sit with me for a while and tell me about it," Fingolfin begged, drawing Fëanor over to an empty couch nestled in an dark alcove that was nearly out of sight of rest of the party, surrounded by curtains that enclosed the space and made it feel intimate and private. Everyone else seemed to be dancing in the ballroom below, or enjoying the warm sweet summer air outside, lit by Telperion's silver light. 

Fëanor, an indulgent look on his face for once, let himself be drawn, taking off his cloak and laying it down over the back of the couch. They settled into the soft settee, which was lower than it first appeared to be, and was one of those couches which pulled you in and made it very difficult to get up again. Fëanor sat down with both feet on the floor, but Fingolfin curled in close, one leg up and resting against Fëanor's thigh, leaning his elbow against the back of the couch, facing Fëanor. It was very rare he got such a chance to be so close to the brother who fascinated him immensely, and he was determined not to waste it. 

He settled his head against his hand and coaxed quizzically, "You discovered copper? How?" 

Fëanor smiled. "By accident, as one usually does. It was in fact Nelyo who discovered it. We stopped to rest in those hills - they are only three or four hours' riding from Tirion - and Nelyo ran off to play in the stream that runs down the middle of the largest hill there. He brought me back some 'pretty rocks' and I immediately recognised them as containing copper." 

"What will you do with the copper?" Fingolfin asked, smiling. "Can you make jewellery from it?" 

Fëanor took a long drink, finishing the glass, and set it down on a nearby low table. He turned a little to face Fingolfin. 

"It makes lovely jewellery," he said, and reached out suddenly, brushing a finger against one of Fingolfin's earlobes. "Earrings." He moved to sweep down Fingolfin's throat, and Fingolfin had to restrain himself from gasping as Fëanor's warm fingers traced his collarbone. "Necklaces and pendants, especially set with turquoise or sapphire." His voice was dreamy and he was looking at Fingolfin like he would look at a lovely work of art, studying all the facets and angles of him. "And of course, beautiful circlets and crowns." He raised his hand, and lightly brushed against Fingolfin's forehead and into his hair a little. 

The conversation had suddenly turned from mere idle chat between two brothers who weren't all that close to something very intimate and strange. Fingolfin's heart was pounding a little too fast in his breast, and there was a rush of blood in his ears. His cock was stiff in his robes - though, young as he was, that was not so strange - but he was tingling all over, especially where Fëanor had touched him, and wanted nothing more than that touch, that fire. 

Fëanor was looking a little embarrassed and seemed to be about to draw back his hand, but Fingolfin reached for it, taking it between both of his own. Fëanor gave the merest suggestion of a sigh and relaxed his hand into Fingolfin's. They sat for a moment in slightly awkward silence, and then Fingolfin slowly began to caress Fëanor's hand with both of his own, rubbing his thumb over Fëanor's, feeling the curves and the callused ridges of many years at the forge. There were several small scars on his hand, and Fingolfin lovingly stroked over every one of them. If it was only Fëanor's hand he would be allowed to caress, then he would touch it as much as possible, before it was taken away from him. 

"Do you like me even just a little?" Fingolfin found himself saying, apropos of nothing but the train of thought in his own mind, after a time. 

Whatever had been in Fëanor's mind abruptly, visibly, vanished from it, and Fingolfin could see him break into a sudden helpless smile. "You're all very well for what you are," he said softly, but then seemingly changed his mind, and continued, with the utter seriousness of one who has had a little too much to drink, "You're very, _very_ beautiful." 

Heat rushed to Fingolfin's face, and he leaned forward, almost unconsciously pressed against Fëanor's shoulder. "No," he said. "You're more beautiful than I am by far." He dropped Fëanor's hand, which landed on his thigh, and raised a hand to stroke Fëanor's face, fingers tracing over high cheekbones, full lips, proud nose. Fëanor's eyes were grey like mist in Telperion's light, and his hair was raven-black, straight and smooth. 

In later years Fingolfin could never be sure which of them initiated the first kiss. Was it himself, moving toward Fëanor like a moth to a flame? Was it the inviting tilt of Fëanor's head that drew him in, enticed him? In any case, their mouths met smoothly, as though they had done it a hundred times before. Fingolfin knelt up on the couch, putting his arms around Fëanor's neck. Fëanor embraced him, and they kissed warmly, slowly, feeling each other out. 

Fëanor tasted of the sweet golden liquor he had been drinking, and underneath that, a warm spicy flavour. Fingolfin, intoxicated by the smell and taste of him, no longer saw or heard anything save themselves. The entire assembly of the Noldor could have been gathered around their couch with a confused Finwë and a furious Nerdanel at the head of them and he would not have looked up from kissing Fëanor. 

The kiss continued for what seemed like a slow golden eternity. Fëanor's tongue met Fingolfin's and they explored each other, hands drifting into each other's hair. At some point Fingolfin became aware that his hair had come free from its bindings, and that he was slowly falling back into the cushions of the couch as Fëanor climbed up onto him, holding him close, holding him down. A fine trembling was running all through his limbs, and everywhere that Fëanor touched him was ecstasy itself.

When Fëanor at last pulled back from the kiss, he was lying fully on top of Fingolfin, hands wound into his hair. Their faces were so close that another kiss would have been almost too easy. Instead Fingolfin raised his head and buried it against Fëanor's throat, laying his lips against it softly. Fëanor stirred after a moment and drew still further back. 

His voice was intimate and low. "We should not do this, Nolo," he said. There was a faint tremor in his voice, which Fingolfin recognised after a moment as desire, and that made him brave. 

"Why not?" he said, attempting to pull Fëanor back down. "Because we are kin? To acknowledge it would be to admit that we _are_ kin." 

Something in Fëanor's eyes flashed, and for an instant Fingolfin wondered if he had been too bold. "That is not why," Fëanor said. "Because you are young. Because I am wed, and did not think that my father's blood ran so true in me." There was a faint trace of lingering resentment laced through his voice, but it was not directed at Fingolfin. Even as Fëanor spoke, he trailed a finger lightly down Fingolfin's face, curving down to stroke his throat and collarbone. 

"I am old enough,' Fingolfin said, and then, lying through his teeth, "and this is not the first time I have touched another so." He pressed quick kisses to the underside of Fëanor's jaw, trailing up to his ear, and mouthed it, not sure of what he was doing, just hoping it would be convincing enough. 

It was. Fëanor's head lowered back down, and he gave a small helpless gasp when Fingolfin's teeth pressed against the lobe of his ear. "And as for blood," Fingolfin went on, low and soft directly into his ear, "well, that will have its way, whether or no. We are what we are. Our father's blood runs as true in me as in you." He punctuated his words with soft kisses, working his way back to Fëanor's mouth, pulling him close again. Fëanor's eyes flashed again and he gave an impatient huff of breath but said nothing to contradict Fingolfin, conceding the point.

A messy kiss followed, Fingolfin sliding one hand between their bodies and endeavouring to undo some of the fastenings and ties that kept them apart. When his hand brushed against Fëanor's erection they both gasped, drawing apart, and Fëanor's eyes took on a wild look of desperate need. 

"I want to touch you, to taste you," Fëanor breathed against Fingolfin's ear, one hand unerringly finding one of Fingolfin's nipples in the tangle of his robes and stroking over it. Fingolfin could barely hold back a moan at the words and the touch, and quickly undid the ties at his waist, pulling the cloth aside so that Fëanor could see him, hard and waiting. He was long past caring much about being interrupted - no one had so much as walked past the curtained alcove for some time in any case - and only needed Fëanor's eyes on him, Fëanor's mouth on him. 

"I'd love to press into you like this, spread out and wanton for me," Fëanor said softly. "Or to have this fine cock inside of me." He reached down and began stroking Fingolfin, who arched up in pleasure at the touch. 

"Some other time, perhaps," Fingolfin whispered. "For now, this is - oh!" Fëanor bent over and took Fingolfin into his mouth all of a sudden. Fingolfin could not resist a gasp of surprised pleasure, but immediately clapped his free hand over his mouth, leaving the other tangled in Fëanor's hair. His stifled cries intensified as Fëanor sucked him in further, lashing at him with tongue and a tiny scrape of teeth here and there, just enough to sting a little, deliciously. 

Fingolfin was overwhelmed. Fëanor's hands held him steady, Fëanor's mouth licked and sucked at him, and very quickly it was all too much to bear. He could not even warn Fëanor but let out a muffled shout as he came, dizzy and disoriented. He could feel Fëanor's mouth still on him, licking at his thighs, and lay dazed, unable to move or think. 

"Press your legs together," Fëanor said, very soft, climbing up over him again, and kissing him. The bitter taste of semen was in his mouth and Fingolfin suddenly realised that he was tasting himself in Fëanor's mouth. He obeyed wordlessly, and felt Fëanor's cock sliding between his thighs, which he realised Fëanor had licked to make wet and slippery. 

Voices and footsteps sounded from outside the alcove, coming nearer, and Fëanor reached for his cloak, throwing it over them both, encasing them in a small dark cocoon of their own, hiding them from prying eyes. Unless the people beyond the curtains actually wished to enter and sit down on the couch, they would see nothing. 

Fingolfin stared upward at Fëanor with wide eyes. It was Fëanor's turn to resist groaning out his pleasure, thrusting between Fingolfin's thighs in long smooth strokes. Fingolfin reached up and placed one hand carefully over Fëanor's mouth, brushing Fëanor's sweat-damp hair back tenderly with his other hand. They shared a moment of wordless communication between them, as the footsteps outside passed by and the voices faded into the distance. 

Fëanor was trembling against him with effort, and Fingolfin could not resist taking his hand away from Fëanor's mouth only to lean up and kiss him. Fëanor gasped softly into his mouth and then Fingolfin felt the hot rush of his release between his legs. He felt almost as overwhelmed by Fëanor's pleasure as his own, and clutched his brother to him, kissing him over and over. They were still under Fëanor's cloak in the warm darkness, and Fingolfin wanted nothing more than to stay just like that for the rest of time. 

Coming back to himself somewhat, Fëanor looked down at Fingolfin. "We cannot stay here." He petted Fingolfin's hair lightly, a wistful expression on his face, like he wanted to add some sort of endearment but wasn't sure what was appropriate. Fingolfin made to move out from under, but Fëanor halted him. "Wait." He blushed a little. "I need to clean you." 

Fingolfin sank back into the cushions, going hot all over at the thought of Fëanor kneeling between his thighs licking his own semen off him, and no sooner had the image arisen in his mind than he was able to see it - and feel it - in reality - Fëanor lapping at his thighs, a trace of white at the corner of his mouth. Fëanor had been careful; Fingolfin's clothes were not stained, though they both smelled of sex and were somewhat disheveled. 

Unable to resist one last kiss, Fingolfin pulled Fëanor back down on top of him when he raised his head, licking away all traces of semen from the corners of his mouth. For a long moment more they lay together under the cloak, nuzzling at one another softly, reluctant to go back out into the crowd. 

"When can we see each other again?" Fingolfin said at last, somewhat plaintively. 

Fëanor seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. "I do not know," he said at last. "I never thought this would happen." He put a hand to his head, appearing a little dazed, and then his eyes flickered to Fingolfin, who could not keep the worry out of his face. "I do not regret it."

"This will be our secret," Fingolfin said. "Ours alone. No one can know." He smiled at Fëanor's nod. "I will wait for your word, for our next meeting." Kissing Fëanor lightly on the forehead, he began to move. After a second's hesitation, Fëanor did the same, and they sat up again on the couch. Fingolfin's hands went to Fëanor's hair, smoothing it down and back. 

"Turn a little," Fëanor said, and as Fingolfin obliged, he felt Fëanor's hands in his hair, performing the same service. "There." Affection tinged his voice, and Fingolfin wanted nothing more than to nuzzle back into him and mess up their hair again. With an effort, he stood, straightening his robes in the near-dark. Fëanor also stood, and for a long moment they simply looked at each other. Fingolfin realised that Fëanor was as reluctant as he was to leave. 

"I will go first," he said, and Fëanor nodded. With no more words, but an eloquent backward glance, he stepped out of the shadow of the curtains into the candlelit hall once more. Off in the distance he could see his mother at the edge of the dance floor, and she appeared to be looking for someone. He made his way over carefully, greeting one or two people on the way, enquiring about the weather or whatever other nonsense he could make up on the spot. 

"There you are!" Indis said, turning to see him when he was a few feet away. "I thought you'd vanished!" Her eyes quickly ran over him, and she gave him a quizzical look. "Where have you been?" 

He hadn't been able to come up with a suitable lie or excuse yet, so he shrugged. "Around. Nowhere in particular." 

She laughed. "Around. With anyone in particular?" Her eyes lit up. "Anairë, perhaps?" 

"No!" Fingolfin said, glad that she had missed the truth. 

She laughed again, and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. "You were! Don't worry, son, I entirely approve of Anairë, and would be happy to see her as part of our House." She drew back the fan and waved it thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should meet with her parents, begin negotiations." She began looking around the ballroom as if to seek them out then and there. 

Fingolfin could feel himself wanting no further part of the conversation. "If I may be permitted to leave, Mother," he said, and out of the corner of his eye caught Fëanor, turning out of the alcove to walk down the stairs to the ballroom. 

"Oh, there's Curufinwë!" she said, clearly catching sight of him as well. "You should greet him, Aracáno. Brothers should be on good terms with each other." 

Fingolfin wasn't whether to laugh or cry. "We are on perfectly pleasant terms, Mother," he said, voice choking a little. "My head is starting to hurt," he went on. "I think I had a little too much of that liquor." 

She turned back with a look of concern on her face. "You do look flushed," she said. "Go to your rest if you wish." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, my son." 

He was indeed beginning to feel very tired now, and could barely suppress a yawn. His father and Fëanor were talking together across the room now, no doubt about the copper. "Until the Mingling, Mother," he said - it was merely an expression - at this rate he would hardly be rising at the Mingling. 

Out in the cooler air his head cleared a little. He stared with wonder at the silver light shining off the rooftops and towers of Tirion, highlighting every silverclad archway and golden curve of roof. It was as though he was seeing them with new eyes, as though all his being was changed by what had happened in the alcove.

Some time later, he received by messenger a gift of a beautiful copper wire necklace set with dark blue sapphires, some in beads, and one great faceted gem at the centre of it. No maker's note accompanied the gift, but he did not need it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I pictured the necklace Fingolfin receives as looking a little something like [this one](http://s6.thisnext.com/media/largest_dimension/B1FE46E9.jpg).


End file.
